


The Ultimate Gossip (Also Known As: Discovering Evan's Secret)

by Splatx



Series: Evan, also known as "This is a Bad Idea(TM) [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Character Study, F/M, Gossip, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Nesting, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scenting, Shameless Smut, Smut, The Gang definitely is gossipy yall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: She moved slowly, taking as much time as she could: she didn’t want to be stuck in a cabin for who knows how long with an Alpha, nevermind three, especially now, so she was trying to burn some of the time. But you can only feed a horse so many oatcakes, and it was starting to get even colder, so she ordered Barley to “Guard” and “Stay”, the dog giving a low bark as he burrowed into the pile of saddles, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she headed back to the cabin.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Javier Escuella/Original Female Character(s), John Marston/Original Female Character, John Marston/Original Female Character/Arthur Morgan/Javier Escuella
Series: Evan, also known as "This is a Bad Idea(TM) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876702
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	1. In Which the Gang Gossips

No one quite knew what to make of Evan.

She’d just shown up one day, riding at Dutch’s side. Her massive horse left her towering over the gang’s lead Alpha, and they’d all assumed she was a new member, just like any other stranger he brought back into camp. But he’d led her into his tent, not to Hosea and Susan to get her settled in, and ten minutes later she’d slunk back out, shrinking under the weight of their stares, mounted back up with a nod of thanks to Kieran, who’d gone to work undoing some of the tangles in the gelding’s tail, and been gone.

Naturally, that had started some muttering in the camp. The most popular theory (probably started by Hosea, thinking back on it, just for a laugh and to give the other man a bit of grief) was that she was a whore he had, in a lapse of sanity, brought back into camp. Of course, there was no way that was the _actual_ reason: it was forbidden to bring outsiders into camp, especially for something so fleeting as a night of pleasure, much less not even _ten minutes_ of pleasure.

  
  


But then she came back the next week.

And then two weeks after that.

And half a week after that.

And two days after that.

  
  


She never stayed in camp long. Would usually only spend a few minutes in Dutch’s tent before heading back out. Nobody even heard her speak until Kieran, having fallen into the habit of giving her horse (she had a decent handful, and tended to rotate through them) a treat and a quick brush down, had asked if her Ardennes liked peppermint, expecting the stilted nods she threw their way or a shake of her head, but instead she had startled those in hearing range with a raspy “his favorite” and the rumors (and, in some cases, bets) that she was mute had been silenced.

  
  


It had been a month and a half since her first visit when she stuck around for longer than was strictly necessary. She’d arrived just before dawn that morning, and stepped out of Dutch’s tent just as everyone had begun to eat. Pearson had seen her and, without thinking, called out, “Want a bowl? Plenty to go around!” because, for once, there was - both Arthur and Charles had gone out hunting the night before. She’d looked around, taking in everyone’s quickly averted stares, before accepting it with an inclined head, turning on her heel and sitting at Kieran’s usual rock near the horses. He thought for a moment about saying something (that _was_ his rock) but decided against it. It wasn’t his place, after all, and he’d be in a world of trouble if she left because of him.

She didn’t stick around long, ate and returned her bowl to the stew pot, showing better manors than most of the members of the gang, offering Pearson a very small smile before leaving.

The next time she returned, she dropped the carcass of a beautiful doe on Pearson’s table, shrugging when he had said a stunned “Er, thank you miss.” 

“Evan.”

“What?” He’d said, barely able to understand her, her voice had been so soft.

“Name’s Evan.”

And from then on when they whispered their rumors, they called her Evan.

As it turned out, all they had to do was ask Dutch.

They’d all been drunk, celebrating… something. No one was entirely certain. Probably a heist? Maybe? Yeah, that was it… maybe. Or maybe not.

Anyways.

They’d all been drunk. Sitting around the campfire while Javier played his guitar, singing and humming along where they didn’t know the words, staggering around and, when he was too drunk to string two chords together, just talking.

As she always seemed to as of late, Evan became the hot topic. What was she doing in camp? Why did she only stick around for a few minutes? Why was she so uncomfortable? What did she do _outside_ of camp? 

Sean still stuck stubbornly by the idea that she was a harlot, despite how impossible it was. Arthur and John both got on him, but he insisted that _nothing_ was impossible, and Karen joined in: Dutch, after all, was the most likely to break and go to a harlot for some relief and, since he couldn’t exactly go into town, had to remain available to the gang, why wouldn’t he give in and bring one back?

Sean challenged them, asking what _they_ thought it could be. Why else would she show up for only a few minutes? Surely not to bring mail, they went into town to do that. And not to get supplies, they did that well enough on their own, and she didn’t bring anything with her besides. Not as a doctor; they had Strauss and Grimshaw and Hosea for that, and she hadn’t helped any of them in such a way, anyways.

So they, too, were stumped.

When Dutch walked by, almost sober as he usually was at such parties Karen, naturally blunt and tongue loosed by liquor, blurted out “She your whore?”

They’d all frozen, and so had Dutch. He’d turned his head to stare at her, raising his right eyebrow in that way of his, as he demanded more than asked, “What?”

“That girl… Evan, she your whore?” Karen had dug herself deeper, despite Tilly’s gaping and Arthur slicing his finger across his throat from where they sat out of Dutch’s sightline.

Dutch had stared at her, for a long moment, before drawling “No,” his eyes scanning the group, “Now, where on earth would you get that idea?” in a way that said he clearly knew where, exactly, she had gotten the idea.

“We-ell,” Karen had slurred, moving to gulp down the rest of her whiskey, grumbling when Dutch plucked it from her hand (“I think you’ve had quite enough”), “Why~ else would, would she just show up an’, an’ go into your tent an’ leave right after?”

Dutch’s eyebrows had vanished into his hairline, looking throughout the group. “If you must know,” and they’d all leaned in eagerly, a month-old question about to be answered, “Miss Evan has been doing work for me. Small jobs that I didn’t want to assign to any of you, that are far away from camp or don’t quite fit any of your skill-sets.”

Oh, well, that… actually made sense.

He turned on his heel, before speaking over his shoulder, “and she would appreciate it if you would wait until she is outside of camp before you start whispering. It makes her uncomfortable.”

  
  


Arthur flushed red, and those of them with something resembling empathy felt vaguely embarrassed.


	2. In Which There Are 'Incidents'

Even still, Evan remained a hot topic.

The last two rumors about her had been quashed, the bets settled, payments handed out with a great deal of grumbling - Hosea had made a decent profit, as had Strauss and, surprisingly, Charles - and so it was only natural that another would spring up.

That one? Her dynamic.

  
  


It should have been easy, in all honesty. Get close enough and you could scent her and tell what she was. But she kept well enough away from them, only got near Dutch, who they didn’t dare ask after the ‘Whore Incident’, had only ever gotten near Pearson otherwise, who hadn’t been paying any attention to such a thing. After two months, they’d still been unable to scent her, had nearly given her a heart attack when Bill tried to sneak up on her, and realized that they _might_ have a problem, might be a _bit_ obsessed, when they considered asking _Micah_ of all people to try and scent her.

  
  


A great deal of them were of the opinion that she was an Alpha-leaning-Beta. From the way that, despite being quiet-as-to-be-mute, she wasn’t afraid to flash her teeth at them if they stepped out of line. She’d laid Micah out when he had tried to invite her to his “you’re already spreading ‘em for Dutch!”, when he wouldn’t take no for an answer, before the ‘Whore Incident’.

The majority of the bets, actually, were that she was an Alpha-leaning-Beta.

Most of the rest, predictably, were just plain Alpha. She was quiet, sure, but she was also strong: she had laid out an ‘Alpha’s Alpha’, after all. Evan may not carry herself with an Alpha’s swagger, sure, but she had the harsh eyes of one, hadn’t thought twice about challenging an Alpha where most Betas would have backed away, any Omega would have tucked tail and fled, or yelped for help.

Only Charles had put a bet in for ‘Omega’, and Strauss had gawked at him when he had, shaking his head at an obvious waste of money. If he was right, though, then he would get a substantial amount of money, the bet-taking Beta couldn’t help but to think.

The worst of their issues, though, was _how_ to figure out what her orientation was. She didn’t stick around long, stiffened up and postured when they got near, had done so ever since Bill had scared her half to death. Evan improved, some, when he came up and apologized awkwardly: “‘m sorry, Evan, I was curious an’ I didn’ think.” and she’d shrugged, clearly still uncertain but seeming to accept it.

She still, sometimes, if she rode in near breakfast or dinner and there was enough left in the stewpot, got a bowl, but she would eat off on her lonesome, watching them, usually curled up against her horse’s leg. Kieran, they had noticed, was allowed near her more than the others, seemingly becoming background noise as he groomed the horses while she ate.

So, naturally, they sent him to scent her.

The former O’Driscoll (or current, depending on who you asked), wasn’t so certain it was a good idea. He feared losing what fragile trust he had earned, but being an Omega-leaning-Beta in an Alpha filled gang, one that rather hated him, he crumpled and gave in easily.

  
  


So the next time she stuck around to eat, curled up against Merchant’s leg (and he was more than honored to have learned the handsome buckskin’s name, offered out of nowhere when she was eating and he was plucking burrs out of his tail), he approached her, a bucket of grooming supplies in his hands. Holding it out to show her what he intended to do, she looked up from her bowl, nodding her assent. Kieran began to clean the Standardbred’s legs, slowly working his way down, getting nearer and nearer to Evan, not wanting to startle her, eyes darting to her and then back away, praying she couldn’t scent his distress.

She was, it seemed, very occupied with eating, eyes glassy and clearly miles away so, when he was as close as he could get without being very, very obvious, he inhaled deeply, trying not to let her know he was scenting her. He sought the harsh, spicy notes of an Alpha, or the sweet, floral scents of an Omega, but he couldn’t smell anything… couldn’t really smell anything at all, really.

Evan smelled _wrong,_ and he fought the urge to recoil. Sterile, like a recently cleaned doctor’s office, with a very, very vague undertone of herbs. Even as a Beta, he fought the urge to peel his lips back and snarl, to chase away something that was clearly wrong and unnatural and probably a danger to his pack, but this was _Evan,_ so instead he stood (probably too abruptly, considering she reached for the knife on her belt, and Merchant shifted, turning to eye him warily), twitching as he tried to decide between walking away, tail tucked, and continuing to groom Merchant. It wasn’t fair to the horse to not finish just because he had been unsettled, but he wanted to get it over with, go and tell the others what he had smelled, and soothe his hackles down so he could be around Evan after this without feeling uneasy.

Merchant mattered more, though, so he walked around to the horse’s other side, patting his shoulder and offering him a carrot, hoping that by the time he reached the last leg, Evan would be done with her bowl, or he would be less uneasy.

  
  


Kieran waited for her to leave, gave her time to be long gone for fear that she might double back, having forgotten something or changed her mind, before reporting back to the others. They were all a bit confused, not quite sure what to make of it, but finally decided that she was a Beta from what he said. He had said that she smelled of ‘herbs’, but Omegas smell distinctly ‘floral’, not herby, so they finally decided Beta, and the bets were paid out.

They still tried to get close to her, of course, to scent her. Her distinctly odd scent, from the way Kieran had described it, had made them curious, and they all wanted to smell it, to see what he meant. Even Beta didn’t smell ‘sterile’, they tended to have their own scents, could be anything other than spicy or floral, but never sterile.

But after the ‘Bill Incident’ they were, though, more careful.

  
  


And, of course, they didn’t want to have a repeat of the ‘Micah Incident’, seeing as she was strong enough to drop a bulky Alpha, and they didn’t want to break what trust they had earned. Bone of them cared to discover if she’d punch them too, besides. Although most of them thought it would be funny to see Bill get taken down by the much smaller Beta.

They were, however, thinking that he was the most likely one to be able to scent her. Second to Kieran and, as far as they could tell, Dutch, he was the one allowed closest to her. But she still kept a good body length away, although it _was_ an improvement from the three to five she kept from the rest of them (Micah kept a prideful four).

After the fifth time she balked away from them, peeled her lips back from her teeth and, finally, lost her temper enough to speak up, snapping “Back off!” at John and then, to Bill, “Give me some space!” Hosea told them all to leave her be, worrying that she would stop doing the work that was taking a great deal of weight off of the gang’s shoulders.

They weren’t happy about it, but for the most part they understood why, and so they did, hoping she would get comfortable enough around them that they could scent her more naturally.


	3. In Which They Learn Things

Everyone had to admit, the fact that Evan still remained aloof despite having been working alongside the gang for nearly six months was rather impressive.

  
  


They knew a bit more about her. Knew that she traveled around with a small camp. That she favored her bolt action rifle over any other, but was more than capable with a volcanic pistol if she had to. Knew that she had a full herd of horses she switched between, but that Merchant was her favorite. He wasn’t the fastest, Duchess the Arabian had that honor, or the strongest, that was Cassim the Ardennes, but he was sturdy and could go for miles without having to rest.

  
  


But anything truly personal?

That remained a total mystery, up in the air and often made into rumor, breaking into gang-wide bets.

They didn’t know whether she traveled alone or with a gang, although they all assumed the first, considering how she acted and that they couldn’t scent any other people on her strong enough to think that she was spending a lot of time with them. Then again, while she let them closer than before, they still weren’t allowed close enough to truly scent her, get their faces in and press their noses to her scent glands, to rub their own against her as they all wanted to, mark her as _family_ and _theirs_ and under their protection.

  
  


They did, however, know that she had a dog.

  
  


Jack had been absolutely over the moon when she’d ridden back into camp, having done whatever Dutch had sent her out to do and coming back to collect her payment, a saggy bloodhound gallumphing at Merchant’s hooves. She’d let the dog play with Abigail’s pup while she talked to Dutch, coming back out to eat and watch over the pair. As far as they could tell, she must have used the dog in her work - she didn’t seem the sort to keep anything as just a pet, and bloodhounds don’t exactly make the best pet anyways - and everyone wondered what, exactly, Dutch had had her doing.

Even to that day, no one quite knew what work Dutch was giving to her. Karen, Sean and a few others thought they were jobs that relied more on her ‘feminine wiles’, to which Micah had snorted “What ‘feminine wiles’?” only for Hosea to point out that he had seemed to be plenty interested way back when.

Some of the others, Arthur among them, suggested that maybe she was just doing small things across the states. Ones that could bring in money, but weren’t worth scattering and risking the gang for. Treasure and bounty hunting, which would make sense with the bloodhound.

And so more bets were made.

  
  


No one thought to just up and ask her, and why would they? She only ever spoke when approached, and never really offered information unless you ‘earned’ it, as they had discovered. Her name had been earned by feeding her, her horses’ names by caring for them. How, though, would they earn _that_ knowledge?

Sean had come up with the bright idea of giving her gifts . After all, he liked receiving gifts, so why wouldn’t she? Arthur hadn’t been able to dissuade him and, with a headache throbbing behind his temples, only just managed to convince him to keep it to useful ones, at the least, to keep from completely terrifying her. How, a lot of them wondered, would gifts get them that information? She had told Kieran the horses’ names and favorite treats, because he was taking care of the horses, and offered Pearson her name after he had fed her, and he had been fairly obviously stomping around avoiding using her name, seeing as he didn’t know it.

So unless Sean could think of some miracle gift that none of the rest of them could, then he was doomed to fail from the start.

And, as expected, gifts didn’t work. 

Sean had been the one to welcome her to camp (“Eh, who goes there?” “...” “Mornin’ Miss Evan!”) to his great glee and, before she could pass him, he had told her to stop, offering her a box of rifle ammunition. She’d stared at it like he’d suddenly sprouted three additional hands, slowly accepting it as though expecting him to snatch it away, or perhaps for it to suddenly turn into a snake and attempt to bite her. The Beta had turned it over and over in her hand, seeming more bemused by the second, before finally saying “...thank you.”

And Sean had beamed, already thinking of the next gift he could give to earn more of her trust, make her more receptive to answering any question he might have.

Naturally, he was rather downcast when, the next time she rode into camp, she passed him a box of revolver ammunition, seeming rather uncomfortable. He’d thanked her, and Arthur had near laughed himself sick when he’d complained: how could she think it was some sort of transaction?! It was a _gift,_ dammit!

Clearly, she hadn’t received many gifts before. Or, as Karen had drunkenly suggested, she had thought he was trying to court her, and hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, so had subtly rejected his gift. He had sulked for days at that, even though she really had just been joking, or at least so she said.

  
  


Their next idea was to check her horse’s saddlebags.

Naturally.

And, of course, Kieran was put up to the task.

Several of her horses were tame enough, and wouldn’t have minded any of them fussing with their saddles. But Duchess was a mare through and through, and would have tried to take their hands off. She was a vicious thing, as mean as she was pretty, and only tolerated Kieran because he had plied her with apples and sugar cubes. They could never know which horse she’d come in on, though, so it was safest to have Kieran be the one who would search her saddle.

  
  


So, on her first visit after the ‘Sean Incident’ (a small bet had sprung up as to who would have the next ‘Incident’), Kieran walked over to tend to Duchess as he always would, watching as she vanished into Dutch’s tent while he slowly fussed with some burrs in the mare’s tail. Only once he was sure he’d have a bit of time, that she wouldn’t come back out to grab something, did he begin to fumble through the saddlebags, hands trembling for fear of being caught.

  
  


He found a journal, but didn’t dare flip through it, drew a firm line at that - already felt _horrible_ for going through her things - and knew better than to mention it, and tucked it back in carefully, before continuing to rifle around. Little boxes of ammo and herbs were quickly ignored—almost all of them had those, after all—as well as some vials of medicine. But, there!

The Omega-leaning Beta pulled out a tangle of jewelry: gold-chained necklaces, gemstone earrings, delicate bracelets. He couldn’t imagine how much money he was holding in his hand, how much more there was in her saddlebags. Some of these looked fancier than what Dutch wore on his vest!

He would have looked longer: _wanted_ to look longer, see the valuables she carried on her, but he could hear Dutch’s voice getting louder, and so he shoved it back into the saddlebag, barely managing to latch it with how badly his hands were shaking, before lunging to make it look as though he’d been grooming the mare’s tail the whole time.

Bill and Micah, who had been watching, laughed as the mare snapped at him, not caring for the sudden, abrupt movement, sending Kieran falling onto his ass with a yell. Evan, who had just been walking out of the tent, stared at him with a raised eyebrow, before shaking her head, a faint grin on her lips, approaching and, to everyone’s surprise, their attention having been drawn by his yell, offering her hand to him.

He stared up at her for a long moment, wondering if it was a trick like everyone else in the camp liked to pull on him: she’d never willingly offered to be touched before, after all. But she’d never been cruel to him as they had, only distant as she was with everyone else so, hesitantly, he accepted her hand, finding himself pulled to his feet. She stepped back with a “sorry,” scowling at Duchess, the mare looking at her as though to say _‘who, me?’,_ eyes wide and innocent. Evan shook her head, and the mare, Kieran would swear on his grave, rolled her eyes before shaking herself off.

  
  


The woman pulled Kieran’s hand into hers and he froze, not wanting to spook her; what was she doing? She frowned, turning it over, before asking “Did she get you?” and he realized what she meant,

“O-oh, no, no ma’am. Just… just startled me.” and she nodded, letting his hand drop.

“Good.” She swung herself up in the saddle, thumping the mare on the neck in a fond reprimand. The horse shook herself, grunting, straining to reach for the grass as she was turned, “be more careful.”

And Kieran was pretty sure that was the most any of them had heard her say at once, “I-I will. Be safe ma’am!” She inclined her head, spurring the mare into a trot as she waved to Charles, the man calling out the same as she passed him where he stood on watch.

When the girls heard what Kieran had found, they were certain that she was a pick-pocket as well or, at least, one part of the time. Most of the men, though, thought she was just a regular thief, having stolen those off the well-dressed rich.

So, seeing as no one could decide exactly what she was, if she was a pick-pocket or a thief, or a pick-pocket and a thief, or something different altogether, they knew they’d have to keep trying to figure it out.

  
  


As it turns out?

They could have just asked her.

Or, maybe not, maybe only Jack could ask and get an answer.

  
  


In the end, she’d been sitting down by her gelding, Merchant, stirring at a bowl of stew, when Jack approached her.

The pup had stood there, swaying on his feet, and she’d looked up, clearly wondering if there was something wrong with him. Finally, though, he had blurted out, “What are you doing?”

Evan had looked from him, to her bowl of stew, back up to him, horrifically bemused, before swallowing her mouthful of stew so she could respond to him. “Eating.”

Jack scowled in that way that made him look just like his pa, crossing his arms. “No! When you’re gone! Pa and them always talk about it.” he demanded, stomping his foot. When she’d looked towards the campfire, where everyone had been eating what could generously be called stew, they’d all found something else that was suddenly incredibly interesting, despite only moments before having been watching the pair.

“Workin’,” she forced down another mouthful of stew.

The pup huffed, “how?”

“How?”

“Working how?” he demanded, and she hummed, trying to figure out a ‘pup-friendly’ way to describe her work.

“I do what Dutch tells me.” she responded quietly. Seeing him open his mouth to, surely, demand more, she held up her hand in an obvious ‘wait’, wolfing down the last two spoonfuls of soup and setting her bowl aside. “Take things from people that don’t need ‘em any more. Catch bad people. Find things that’ve been lost for a long time. Look for special animals.”

The rest of the gang held their breaths, listening closely. Robbing. Bounty hunting. Treasure hunting. They’d all been right, some of them more than once, and none of them were going to get much of a payload out of out.

“Oh.” Jack said, tilting his head. “Like Uncle Arthur?” he asked, and she grinned.

“Sure, like your Uncle Arthur.” and then, pausing, looking at the others, who found something else to look at. “And your pa, too?” it came out more of a question than she had intended: she was fairly certain she knew which one was his sire, but she didn’t know them well enough to be sure.

One of the Gang’s Alphas, though, she knew that for sure.

That didn’t narrow the number of potential sires down by much, though. She’d never seen so many Alphas in one place before, and it made her twitchy. They seemed… well, more trustworthy than most outlaws she had met, hadn’t yet tried to harm her. But she never felt comfortable around any great number of Alphas.

Especially ones so determined to find out her dynamic.


	4. In Which They Get An Opportunity

Evan had been working with them for just gone a year when, finally, they got to work with her.

She’d started spending more time in camp. Had even, once, spent the night. Granted, it hadn’t been on purpose. The Beta had been so tired when she’d ridden back into camp that Charles had had to stop himself from stepping forward, half expecting her to collapse out of the saddle. Her face had been pale, so pale he’d feared she was bleeding somewhere he couldn’t see, dark circles under her eyes, and for once he could scent her without getting up close, still sterile but sour and weak and so bitter it turned his stomach.

Evan had only barely made it to Dutch’s tent, walking back out and tucking her share of the earnings into her satchel, so weary she was stumbling. Hosea had stepped in with that Look of his, taking her by the arm and leading her to Charles’ bedroll by the campfire. The man wouldn’t mind, he knew, seeing as he would be on watch all night. She’d put up the necessary struggle, but had been asleep almost before she’d been pushed down onto the bedroll.

She’d been gone long before sunrise, but it had been a shift in her relationship with the gang.

The Beta had taken to sitting closer and closer to the rest of the Gang when she ate, and Arthur had just about had a heart attack when she sat down next to him by the campfire one night, looking as uncomfortable as a doe caged next to a hound dog. They’d all frozen but, when it looked as though she was about to flee back to her rock, resumed their conversations, if not that bit more quiet.

So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Dutch decided that it was time to send them out to join her on a job. It went without saying that he sent Arthur—but John and Javier?

None of them expected that and, honestly, they were a bit concerned.

Sending three Alphas out on a job? Two of who were constantly at the others’ throat? With just a relatively wild-card Beta to keep them in line?

It sounded like a _bad idea._

But the three weren’t going to complain, they had all wanted to go out on a job with Evan for ages (most of the gang did, really), and so Javier swore that he’d keep them in line to keep them from ruining any chances they’d have of working with her in the future.

Thankfully, they would be meeting up with her at the base of The Grizzlies, near the Barrow Lagoon, so they’d have plenty of time to bicker themselves out; or so he hoped, at least.

And he had been right. By the time they were near the Lagoon, the Alphas had argued, and fought, and bickered, and worn themselves out, and he was ready to pull his hair out, but they could present their best selves, well, the best John and Arthur had, to the Beta.

She was sat astride Whiskey, her handsome Andalusian, when they rode up, raising her head and dropping her hand to her pistol as her bloodhound began to bark, wagging his tail. Seeing that it was just the three of them, she relaxed, although her hand didn’t leave her gun.

“Miss Evan,”

“Hola hermosa,”

“Hi Evan,”

They all greeted, but didn’t dismount, seeing as she hadn’t. Barley flopped up to Arthur, and the Alpha leaned over the side of his Shire to give the dog a good scratching, while John asked, “Where’re we goin’?”

The Beta hummed, watching Alpha and dog in amusement, “Up near the old Adler steading. There’s some O’Driscolls and Skinners camped up there, working together. Barley’ll sniff ‘em out. Real menaces, big prices on their heads.” She turned Whiskey toward the pass that would lead them up into the Grizzlies, before tilting her head back to them, _“Big_. Even split half to Dutch, the rest between us. We’ll all get a lot. ”

Damn. It must have been a high bounty, then, if they would get a lot of money, even split four ways after being cut in half. And that was… rather concerning, in all honesty. What made them so special? They must have done some truly horrific things, things worse than most O’Driscolls would do, so perhaps the Skinners had the majority of the bounty?

  
  


Either way, they’d have to keep their eyes peeled, watch each other’s backs, and pray she was a good shot.


	5. In Which She Has Regrets

They had expected the job to take two, three days at most.

  
  
  


The Bounty poster she'd showed them as they'd made their way up the mountain had said there would be fourteen in total. When they'd found the camp there had been only four men, none of them standing guard. They hadn't even known they were under attack before they were dead, and the three Alphas were sure it would be an easy job, easy money.

Evan, though, wasn't quite sure. Still, as the others had looted the dead bodies, she occupied herself with finding a scent trace for Barley, cutting pieces off of the bed rolls and taking boots that she found. By the time the Alphas were done, she was more than satisfied, and it was simply a matter of letting Barley get a good nose full of one of the boots, mounting up, and commanding him to search. Waiting for him to put his nose down and circle, circle, and circle, before setting out into the snow. The four spurred their horses into motion, following the dog as he lumbered steadily through the snow.

His ears perked, and he began to bugle loudly, lunging forward to race after the source of the scent. They found themselves shuddering, remembering all the times they’d been in their bounty’s place, but still kicked their horses into canters, allowing Evan to take the lead despite Whiskey only barely being faster than Arthur’s gelding, following in a line behind Barley. As they went they could begin to see what he was following, hoof and boot prints in the snow and discarded bullet casings, and more joined them as they checked their own barrels.

The bloodhound _baooo’d_ again, crashing through a snowdrift before coming to an abrupt stop, tail wagging and breath pluming in the air. Evan reined Whiskey in beside him, murmuring “Good boy,” so quietly they didn’t hear her, tossing him a chunk of dried beef that she’d kept in her satchel. He wolfed it down as she slipped from her saddle, the Alphas doing the same, grabbing their weapons. Without prompting, Barley moved to lay down beneath Whiskey’s bulk, head resting on his paws, yawning blearily.

They began to make their way down to the camp, counting off the outlaws as they saw them. All of them accounted for, Evan nodded her head at, first, Arthur and Javier, tilting her head to the left, then at John, tilting her head to the right. They nodded and split up, moving slowly and quietly, knowing the gang would be on edge after hearing Barley’s baying. They’d have to be very careful and watch each other’s backs; outnumbered two to one, it would be hard, but not impossible. After all, they’d tackled far worse odds before. At least, the three Alphas had. As for Evan, they didn’t know.

There was a lot about her they didn’t know.

In position, their guns loaded, they looked between each other, and nodded. 

_‘Ready?’_

_‘Ready.’_

  
  


Leaping into action, they began to fire their guns. One… two… three... four men dropped, not even aware that they’d been shot, alerting the rest of the group, six in total, wait, five?, that they were under attack. Before they could be shot down, they took shelter, leaping behind tents and wood crates, bullets leaving holes and sending wood-chips flying. The four ducked behind piles of snow or stumps or trees, whatever they could find that would protect them, reloading their guns before joining the fight again.

One man dropped, Javier’s bullet landing solidly between his eyes, and Evan leveled her gun to fire at a second’s head, only to jerk her head up at a sudden, strong, rotten scent of sour Alpha, grunting as a solid figure slammed into her. The snow cushioned her fall, her satchel exploding open and scattering the contents along with her weapons, leaving her to reach up and protect her face from his fists with her forearm, his own gun gone scattering. “I’ll kill you, bitch!” he snarled, and she didn’t deign to respond, free arm coming up to strike at his face.

  
  


The distant gunfire had stopped, and she could hear Barley barking an alarm. Her free hand came up again, slamming into his face hard enough that his nose shattered in a spray of blood, her right arm straining to keep his hand from her throat. His fist drew back, a nasty snarl, purely _Alpha,_ thundering in his chest, only for a loud _bang!_ to sound, soaking her face in blood.

She twisted, throwing the headless corpse off of her, wrinkling her nose at the mess she was covered in. “Y’alright?” Arthur asked, extending his hand to her. The Beta took it, the Alpha standing just that little bit taller at the show of trust, allowing him to tug her to her feet, reaching up to wipe the blood off with her sleeve, grumbling “fine, thank you.”

  
  


Javier offered her her pistol, and she took it with a nod, setting it in its holster, eyes widening when she saw all her things on the ground. Evan began to dig through them, Javier and John and Arthur helping to scoop up boxes of ammo, bundles of herbs and flowers and bottles of medicine, glass crunching beneath their feet, while she dug through the things.

“Alright?” John asked, and the Beta paused before nodding with a sigh, taking her things from the three and shoving them into her satchel, planning on organizing it once they’d set up camp. She slung her satchel back over her shoulder, accepting her rifle from John with a tight grin.

  
  


“I got the pictures,” Arthur broke the tense silence, seeing as they didn’t have a wagon to take the corpses back in, and Evan whistled without any other acknowledgement, Barley barreling towards them, sniffling at her pants in concern, Whiskey careful at his heels. Javier and John and Arthur followed suit, loading their weapons on their horses before mounting up, Arthur having to soothe his black Shire as the bad-tempered beast shied at the scent of blood and death.

“Ready?” she asked, and they all chimed some sort of affirmative, not wanting to bother looting, all wanting to rest, the air growing colder and colder: it seemed as though a storm was coming on. Evan tilted her head back, looking at the grey clouds rolled in overhead. If they hurried, she thought, they might be able to find somewhere to wait out the storm. She’d rather not have to wait out a snowstorm in a tent, her’s wasn’t particularly insulated and Barley didn’t give off enough body heat to keep her from freezing.

If they hurried fast enough, she hoped, they could make it out of the Grizzlies, beat the storm or, at least, the worst of it. She really hoped they did, and so she spurred Whiskey into a gallop, ignoring the Andalusian’s grunt of protest at having to struggle through the snow.

  
  


She was wrong - they didn’t outrun the storm.

It struck seemingly out of nowhere, harsh winds throwing snow up in their faces, beginning to dump snow down from above. They hunkered down in their saddles, Evan being the first to stoop down and light a match against the sole of her boot, flaring her lantern to life. The others followed suit, poor Barley hugging to their sides as close as he dared in a desperate attempt to see.

“Evan!” Arthur called, breath stolen away by the wind, “we need to set up camp!” 

She looked back over her shoulder and nodded, pointing up over Whiskey’s pearlish shoulder. ‘There’s a cabin up there,’ she wanted to say, but her voice wasn’t nearly capable of yelling, of going loud enough to be heard over the howling winds, so she hoped that would be enough.

  
  


They assumed she knew of a good spot to hunker down for the night, a cave, perhaps, and so they followed her as she guided Whiskey off of the beaten path, Barley bounding ahead when he recognized where they were going with an excited _bwaou bwaou!_ The cabin came into sight, only a dark silhouette in the pouring snow. The Beta reined her horse to a stop, grabbing her lantern and struggling through the drifts, eyeing Barley as she opened the door for him, the dog walking inside with nothing more than another excited _bwaou!_

Knowing it was safe, trusting him not to lead them into danger, she lit another match using the heel of her boot, hearing the others approach her, hands on their horse’s reins. She strained up, struggling to reach the unlit lantern dangling by the doorframe, only to find Arthur’s hand offered to her, “Let me, darlin’.” and she let him, the taller Alpha easily lighting the lantern.

“S’safe,” she muttered, gesturing inside. “I’ll get ‘em,” Evan offered her hand for the reins, clearly not taking no for an answer. They looked between each other, before shrugging—they could get the cabin ready while she got the horses settled, after all—allowing her to take the reins, heading inside. Barley nearly knocked John on his ass, racing out to join Evan, even the Beta grinning as Javier and Arthur laughed at the man.

  
  


Whiskey trailing behind her, his reins wrapped around his saddlehorn, she led the small herd to a nearby lean-to. It was only barely big enough for the three, and she took a moment to give them all a handful of sugar cubes, filling the trough with some of the oats she found in the nearby barrel (she needed to refill it soon), taking off their bridles and scratching their faces to rub out the lines their bridles had left in their fur. After a moment’s thought, she took off their saddles as well, setting them in the corner of the lean-to, leaving their blankets on to give them some protection against the cold. She moved slowly, taking as much time as she could: she didn’t want to be stuck in a cabin for who knows how long with an Alpha, nevermind _three,_ especially _now,_ so she was trying to burn some of the time.

But you can only feed a horse so many oatcakes, and it was starting to get even colder, so she ordered Barley to “Guard” and “Stay”, the dog giving a low bark as he burrowed into the pile of saddles, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she headed back to the cabin.


	6. In Which She Nests

Evan was pleasantly impressed when she walked inside.

Javier was rifling through the cabinets, seeing what food was available. She knew some of it, had bought and stored it herself, but hadn’t looked through all of what the previous owners had in there. Already, he had set some cans aside, although from where she stood she couldn’t see what, exactly, he’d grabbed.

The woman just hoped there were some of the oat cake cans in there, and that Arthur would allow her one of the cans of beans. Why the Alpha was so obsessed with beans, she didn’t know.

Well, actually, she did. For the same reason she craved them now: they were high in calories, and didn’t taste half bad even if you didn’t have a way to heat them. Although, considering that Arthur was piling some of the firewood that had been stored in the corner into the fireplace, they’d taste even better.

Though she’d give her shooting hand for some rare meat. Fresh off the carcass and cooked only enough that it wasn’t bleeding any more. Fish fresh out of the river and seared over the fire. But, seeing as they were up in the mountains, in a blizzard that she could hear raging outside, she’d take the dried jerky she knew was in the pantry. Surely Javier would pull it out? If not, maybe she could sneak and steal some.

Shit, even Pearson’s stew sounded good, with all that venison and beef and poultry he put in it. Her stomach growled, and she salivated, hoping that Arthur would get the fire going soon so she could stuff her face and fill her stomach before sleeping through the storm.

John was digging through the cabinets, a pile of furs on the floor. Theirs had been soaked through with snow, so she’d left them piled up in the lean-to: no point in using soaked through sleeping bags, after all. There were enough furs in there, she knew, to keep them all well-warm through the night.

Through the night… she was going to be spending the night with them.

Possibly longer than that, depending on how long the damned blizzard lasted.

Well, shit.

“Good to see you didn’t freeze to death, _hermosa._ ” Javier’s voice caught her attention, and she still wondered what ‘hermosa’ meant, looking at him. He’d turned away from the pantry, smiling at her in that enchanting way of his. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, and stamped her feet on the rug to dislodge the snow from her boots.

“‘s a close thing.” she grinned, and he laughed, Arthur chuckling as he swiped a match against his boot, breaking it off to curse when his shoe proved too crusted with snow to light it, stomping his foot before wiping it off, trying again and tossing the lit match into the firewood.

The heat felt _wonderful_.

  
  


The Alphas were stripping down, not paying her a lick of attention, and so she took the chance to slip over to the cupboard, digging out a coat, shirt and pants. When she kicked off her boots, she felt eyes on her, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end, and snarled, flashing her teeth at John - he had the good graces to flush, and Arthur smacked him over the back of his head for it.

She hurried to strip out of her snow-covered fur, already feeling it melt and soak through, tossing them off into the corner, before yanking on the nice, _dry_ clothing with a sigh. They didn’t particularly fit, hung off of her almost comically, all pulled off O’Driscolls, made for males, for designations that _weren’t_ hers, but they were clothes and they were dry and they were _warm_ so who cared?

Not caring that the Alphas were huddled around it, she sat next to the roaring fire, basking in the radiating warmth. Arthur went rigid as her arm brushed his - she’d never willingly touched any of the gang members before, except when she absolutely had to, aside from when she’d helped Kieran to his feet - before preening when she remained there, the side of her arm against his, green eyes half-lidded as she enjoyed the campfire. His chest puffed out just that little bit, and he smirked at John, who scowled. Javier just shook his head. Exactly the sort of Alpha he tried _not_ to be.

  
  


She shivered, tucked her feet under herself, and against her better judgement leaned against Arthur - the Alpha was a line of burning heat beside her, though it didn’t escape her the way he puffed up a bit more, and John’s face darkened. He twitched, moved to wrap his arm around her, but when she flinched he dropped it back down despite how awkward it felt, not wanting to send her skittering like some fearful dog.

Javier, once he didn’t feel as though he’d lose one of his fingers (and oh! what a shame that would be!), got up to get the canned foods that they’d found in the cupboards - corn and beans - and put them over the fire to cook, tossing offal to Arthur - the man glowered, and threw it back, and Javier laughed - before tossing canned peaches to Evan who dug in, kidney beans to John, who gagged them down, and corned beef to Arthur, who wolfed it down. For himself, he kept the apricots.

  
  


The canned food over the fire was distributed once it was given time to cook, passed around mouthful by mouthful, and they all relaxed as the warmth from the food spread through them, chasing the chill from their bones and their extremities.

Done eating, they all got up and made their beds, furs made into temporary beds, and went to sleep. Barley was outside to keep guard, but there was no certainty that they’d hear him over the howling storm, and so Evan claimed first watch.

  
  


They fell asleep quickly, and she laid awake, staring at the ceiling. Their jackets were dry, set near the fire… surely they wouldn’t miss them? They looked so soft… so comforting… and surely would smell like them. Like pack, like family. Like Alpha…

Slowly, keeping an eye on them to make sure she didn’t wake any of the Alphas, she stood, slinking over to the shirts and jackets and pants that had been laid out on the wooden flooring, gathering them in her arms and taking them back to her furs - oh, but her furs were _uncomfortable_ , itchy on her sensitive skin, smelled like nothing but herself and musty, dusty cupboards.

Kneeling, she dropped them onto the furs and began to arrange them into a way that felt just right.


End file.
